On Becoming a Dad (Who Happens to be Gay)

Almost 18 months have passed since the happiest day of my life to date, when we were matched with Dorothy and met her for the first time. Just today I learned that one of my college friends became a dad – welcome Baxter and congratulations Clay and Max. When Clay and I lived at Pearson Scholarship Hall, we were both closeted, nerdy kids trying to find our way through the world. At the time, I never imagined 10 years later that I’d feel so connected to him and his experiences across time and location. The amazing feeling of becoming a father, one who happens to be gay, is something that unites more than it separates but definitely in ways I wouldn’t have expected. So I offer here a few random reflections on becoming a dad who also happens to be gay.

First and foremost I will always be Dorothy’s dad. In the quiet of home, at the moments most sensitive and special between parents and child, that’s all we are to Dorothy – parents. But when you are gay and the prospect of becoming a parent is logistically uncertain, it’s hard not to feel an extra bit of wonder looking back on our blessing. And while the barrage of statements and misrepresentations in the media about who gay parents are and why they might be threatening to your home and your way of life may not hurt you personally, it always hurts me to hear. These have lessened over time but they are still there and make me wince on reading. They are so hurtful; so personal. And yet these people don’t know me. They don’t know Eric. And after a year that has always been exhilarating but at times exhausting, I find it incredibly comical that some societies turn away interested adoptive parents – gay or straight. It happens all the time, because of someone’s age, their sexual orientation, their status as a single person, their religion, kids are kept from growing up in loving homes.

Our families have always been very supportive of our becoming parents but I think it was all rather conceptual until they got our call on Nov. 25. One of the hardest parts of my mom’s accepting my coming out was her reconsidering the plans she had always envisioned for me of becoming a parent. While when I came out I never seriously questioned how that would impact my prospects of becoming a parent, I am sure it created more hesitation among my parents about setting expectations that might not be met. My parents didn’t really know how to mentally wait during the two years we were on the adoption waiting list, seeing the many ups and downs. We didn’t know how to wait either so I can certainly understand this. So when Dorothy arrived, our parents, in particular, were overcome by the emotions of becoming new grandparents on one-day’s notice. They had all become grandparents before and as much as they would likely deny it, I have a feeling they were surprised at how quickly their love for Dorothy overflowed their hearts. I am sure they had guarded themselves while we were waiting (and ever since we came out), but all guards fell instantly.

For many of our straight friends, I think our adoption was a long awaited means of celebrating Eric and my union. It was from our straight friends that we received an astounding number of gifts, packages, and warm greetings, by and large. From our gay friends, with two exceptions, we heard mostly silence. This was quite puzzling and is something which I must admit a continued struggle. I think I expected the most excitement from our gay friends, but that really wasn’t the case. We have a gay cousin who subsequently also became a parent but otherwise no other same-sex families in our circle. So the only thing that I can think is that perhaps these friends don’t fully realize what a momentous event this was for us. But being so tied to the gay community in Kansas City and gay causes generally, this hurt me.

The strange part about this silence was that in many ways I have never felt more blatantly “out” than after becoming a parent. First, as a parent, we quickly learned that you lose all anonymity. As a white male, this ability to be anonymous when I wanted was something I never fully realized I had. But when you are with a young child, everyone tends to get into your business when in public. And Dorothy was stunningly beautiful in particular in as young infant, with her full head of curls and bright disposition. Additionally, with Dorothy being African-American and our being White, we learned very quickly what it truly meant to be a multiracial family and the added level of staring, questioning, and also assumptions that it brings. In our neighborhood in Chicago where we lived when Dorothy arrived, two men walking with a baby of another race meant they it was automatically assumed you were a gay couple with a baby. Quickly we became both parents and also “out” again although in a very different manner. Now the questions rolled in about the adoption process and strangers offered their (mostly supportive, if unrequested) commentary.

I started this entry more than 5 months ago, around the time of Dorothy’s first birthday. And since then we have had a couple of gay friends come back into our lives. Without actually addressing the situation, they approached from the periphery, seemingly still not very comfortable with the situation. To one of these friends, I must apologize for venting. He didn’t deserve to bear the weight of the gay community on his shoulders.

Being a gay dad in Spain? Well, it’s been amazing. The Spanish truly are less judgmental of most differences than other societies. We are by no means the "normal" family here, but so many other families and groups have embraced us. It’s strange because the Spanish are in so many ways stodgy and patriarchal but I feel much more a focus for my questionable fashion sense than I do as a gay dad.

I am not really sure why I am writing this except that I feel I need to. I don’t know if other new gay parents have had similar experiences but I think it would have helped me while becoming a new parent to realize some of the special parts of the experiences that might relate to being gay. The second coming out; the embrace by our straight friends; and the hesitancy of our gay friends were all things I hadn’t foreseen – small streams in the flood of new emotions and experiences the last year has brought.

Visitors

We’ve now had two (and a half – Eric’s dad is still here!) sets of visitors to see us in Madrid (and have several more to come in the spring) – Eric’s mom and my parents.  Playing host is always fun if sometimes exhausting.  I often get too caught up in the logistics of hosting and don’t just enjoy the friends being here as I should.  That said, we’ve had some wonderful visits so far!

Our visitors might have all grown up in Northeast Kansas but they were coming to us from very different realities.  Eric’s mom came on a last-minute jaunt from Togo where she is living for 2 years as a Peace Corps volunteer.  My parents came via Omaha, Nebraska, where they dropped off their dog with my brother before beginning the long trip.  Eric's dad came from his home in Topeka.  

Terry’s trip to see us was unexpected but very welcome.  Eric had been planning to visit her but some travel trouble resulted in a unique situation where the only opportunity to see each other was if she came to us instead of vice versa.  And while Terry was very healthy when she arrive, she had lost about 16 pounds since beginning her time as a volunteer so we were trying to fatten her up while in our control.  She’s had to be so flexible with her life in the last year, rolling with the punches of the downturn, the excitement of the Peace Corps opportunity, and the reality of the Peace Corps opportunity.  She’s adapted to all of this much better than I could have and seems to be loving her life in Togo.  There are plenty of difficulties, but she draws so much energy and inspiration from the amazing people she’s met. 

For my parents, visiting the grandkids is normal; traveling abroad is not.  This was my dad’s first time out of the country and only my mom’s third (the previous two trips with me in the past few years).  We were very excited that they were coming.  They are both retired now and seem to be enjoying the freedom that gives them to go at their own pace.  My dad has always been about the most paced person I know; to say that he is regimented would be an understatement. His body calls out for routine from deep within him.  Luckily he seemed to balance his need for daily routine with the many uncertainties (good and bad) that traveling brings.  My mom definitely craves some routine as well but much more carnally she craves her grandkids.  I still remember the first time she met Dorothy and we were pushed out of the way by the charging Karen.  She seemed to find some things about Spain interesting but mostly she was there to see Dorothy (and us as a result). 

So, with it already the middle of March; 2011 has charged ahead.  We’ll have two sets of visitors in April and are looking forward to each one for different reasons.  We’ll take a small road-trip over Easter which I am perhaps most excited about as it will bring the first visits for me to the northern coast of the country.  We spent some time in Barcelona with my parents and are back here now with Eric’s dad.  Eric and I got away while my parents were here for a weekend in Seville.  And there was Granada with Eric’s mom.  It’s great that Spain has high-speed train network that makes all this travel very doable with an infant.  It’s an amazing country that is on one-hand very similar to the United States and on the other couldn’t be more different.  It’s also great that the world is so connected so that we don’t have to just rely only on in-person visits to stay connected to our friends and family all over the world.  As I write this Eric’s mom was commenting on Facebook photos of my parents visit.  Visits and technology help to keep us all living together while we live far apart.   

Artesanal

There is something magical in the concept of "local."  We travel the world to find the local...the things we haven't seen...the things which only other people know.  And anymore when you travel the world you are often told - boldly - that something is local.  Subtly is gone.

Here in Spain the term of choice seems to be "artesanal."  I've seen it on everything from tomato puree (a Spanish favorite for morning bread instead of jelly) to "patatas fritas" (yes, that's potato chips).  At first I didn't think they really had normal potato chips here (everything was ham flavored) but then I realized I'd just been missing them because it was in a huge "local" section.  My other favorite artesanal is a jar of "dulche de leche" that we bought this holiday season.  Something about the stamp "artesanal" makes it seem healthier when I am slathering it on a piece of toast alongside my Nutella.  Too bad I think it's straight sugar, basically carmel.  Kind of like buying sugary things at the farmer's market or a freshly made lemonade at local craft fair seems not indulgent but rather supportive.

I love eating local...at least when it doesn't involve seafood, live animals, or something that's been rotting for months on-end.

It’s not open...at 9

How silly I was to think my new gym might be open at 9 on a Sunday.  My morning gym pass will work from 11 (when I found out they open) until 3 on Sundays.  It’s very fitting how the traditional concepts of morning, noon, and night are slightly tweaked here.  Sadly, my hours of operation are becoming less and less Spaniard with the weeks.  When we first moved to Madrid, I adjusted quickly to the later hours.  Without really trying I was having no difficulty staying up to midnight and sleeping until 7 or 8.  But then I began trying, and things got harder or seemed to revert to my pre-Spaniard days. Now I wake at 5:30 or 6, sometimes earlier as Dorothy seemed to be on an “I want a morning bottle phase” for too long with cries between 4:30 and 5:30.

It's not open...at 5:30am

In Chicago I was the neighborhood quack who be waiting outside of Starbucks at 5:30am for a cup of coffee and some quiet time for reading the paper.  It was part of my morning routine on and off for the last several years.  I miss it greatly.  Here the earliest you can find a cup of coffee (or espresso) is at least 7:30 and really more like 8 or 9.  Starbucks doesn't open on Sundays until 9:30 (I didn't even try to go looking early during the week).  Coffee in Madrid is much more of an all-day social activity.  One of the surest ways to be spotted as an American is to ask for a coffee "para llevar" (or to-go).  Only Starbucks offers that and even there the default is a ceramic mug.  That said the Spanish breakfast scene has ruined me on Starbucks.  The espresso is so much richer and most of the time the tortilla espanol is much more filling than anything Starbucks offers.  So I guess I miss my Starbucks friends - Dale, Ethan, and the crew - more than I really miss Starbucks.  Haven't gotten to be really friendly with any of the new breakfast holes as of yet.

It’s not open...at 2:30

Siesta.  Lasting anywhere from 1:30 – 4:30 but most typically 2:30-4, the afternoon rest period remains a mainstay of Spanish life.  I’ve adjusted pretty quickly, not planning to do anything involving anyone else during the afternoons.  I found early on that stated hours of siesta were often rather fungible and that a “return at 3:30” sign was really probably more like return at 4.  For Eric, I think the siesta has been more frustrating.  His work is at least a 30-minute drive from our house, and thus it’s not possible to run home for some Dorothy time or a breather.  Yet, the work schedules mandate a siesta with expectations of arrival between 8 and 9 and exit sometime after 6:30.  So siesta becomes about spending either more time explicitly working at your desk or spending time with coworkers over the extended lunch.  Luckily Eric has some very nice coworkers.

It’s not open...on Sunday

Need I say more at this point.